


A Study in Anatomy

by Paranoid_Android



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Drawing, Eventual Smut, M/M, Male Slash, Nudity, RST, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoid_Android/pseuds/Paranoid_Android
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes an anatomy drawing class at a local art museum at his therapist's encouragement.  He is intrigued by the male model, and vice versa.  He soon joins the man to solve a series of murders at the museum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Smut soon! Let me know if you...uh...have suggestions for future modeling positions. :-)

John sighed.  He was browsing the art shop at the modern art museum store, looking for all the things on the list he printed from the web site.  These drawing supplies were bloody expensive!  He needed several sizes and kinds of charcoal.  He hadn’t realized charcoal came in so many varieties: soft, medium, and hard pencils; pencil-size blocks, compressed charcoal, and willow sticks. He finally chose a drawing set and a pad of very nice paper (Bamboo, for Christ's sake!). This was a bit more expensive than what John had set aside for a hobby, but his therapist insisted it would be therapeutic.  John was just hoping that he would enjoy the 6 week long class.  As he paid for his materials and went to his designated classroom, he also found himself hoping to meet some of the women he spotted heading to his studio.

There were about 15 easels spread in a circle around the center of the room, where there was a red velvet chaise lounge.  A couple of the stools were already taken.  John grabbed one and settled himself near the door.  His military habits were engrained in his psyche, and he preferred to be near an exit when he could. 

“Hi.”

He was surprised that a very attractive woman, mid 30s, had taken a seat beside him, given all the extra seats.

“I’m Sarah,” the woman looked him in the eye and smiled.

Well this was a good start.  He cleared his throat.  “I’m John.”

They chatted while the class filled up.  It turned out that she owned a local medical clinic and was from London.  John explained he was a doctor and recently invalided from Afghanistan.

“Oh well, welcome back.”  She gave him a beaming smile that he returned.  He liked the fact that she didn’t give him a once over looking for an injury, like many others had.

He glanced around the room and noted it was almost full.  Mostly woman, but a couple other men were there as well.  The teacher had come into the room, a small older lady in a purple dress.

“Hello everyone!  Before we start, I’d like to go over some ground rules.  We prefer to keep the door closed for the models’ sake.  It gets drafty in the hall, and we’d like to preserve their modesty as much as possible.  Now, we will have two different models during the 6 weeks, one male and one female.  They will do a different pose every week, mostly nude, but we may play around with clothing textures.  I know some of you are new to charcoal and perhaps drawing as well.  Just do your best and I will walk around and give help where it’s needed.  The important thing is to have fun and do your best.” At this the woman beckoned to someone behind a dark changing screen in the corner of the room.

Now, John had known there would be nudity in the class, it being a human anatomy study, and he knew there would be male model.  Being a doctor, he honestly hadn’t given it a second thought.

As the model came out from behind the screen though, he thought his heart may have stopped.

It was the most gorgeous man John had ever seen, (and he had been to three continents).  He must not have been the only one to think so because he heard a couple gasps from the women, and a nervous giggle from one of the men.  Sarah cleared her throat.

He was long and lean, but well-muscled with angular features.  His hair was dirty blonde with dark roots, short and styled with a little mousse.  He had a 5 o’clock shadow just above his cupid’s bow.

Ignoring the commotion, the man looked around for a moment before settling down on the chaise, leaning back halfway, with one arm draped over his head as if in repose and the other falling off the chaise, his fingertips trailing the cream rug underneath.

The model took another minute to position his legs, one propped up, the other at an angle on the cushion. When he was done, he looked up, apparently looking for a point to train his eyes on, and he found John. His aquamarine eyes blazed with intensity, and it felt like he was looking right into John. John froze like a deer in headlights, terrified to look away or look at the rest of the model’s body.  John refused to look lower. The man gave a knowing smirked.

“Stop being so cheeky, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson reprimanded, noticing the tension.

“Apologies, Mrs. Hudson.”

At this man’s unnaturally deep voice and slow careful pronunciation, which screamed _sex now!,_ there was another collective gasp.

Now, John wasn’t usually attracted to men, but he had had a couple positive experiences in the military which made him rethink his sexuality. But overall he preferred women. 

But there were always exceptions. This, for instance.

John found the model was still staring into his eyes, and he took a shaky breath, picking up his chalk.  Whatever he was expecting, he was not prepared for this.  He felt his heart almost beating through his chest, and struggled to control himself.  _Relax_ , he told himself.

Putting chalk to paper John began at the man’s hair, figuring that was safest.  Maybe he would calm down by the time he got to the…rest of him.  The class was sixty minutes.  Sixty minutes of staring at the most gorgeous man he had ever seen…naked.  Oh brother.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat at home admiring his artwork. He was proud of it. It wasn't the most accurate charcoal drawing in the class perhaps, but there were certain artistic virtues that stood out about this particular man, and he felt he had captured them. 

For instance: The eyes. They had almost looked like quiksilver in class. Piercing and tiger-like in their luminosity and intensity. Thankfully with charcoal he didn't have to worry about color immediately, because he wouldn't have been able to decide between green/blue/aqua/grey. 

Perhaps his portrayal of the eyes was so good because the model, Sherlock, had not stopped gazing at him the entire time. At first it had made him nervous and uncomfortable, because there was so much depth and intelligence there. John had no idea how he must have looked to the model, a 40-ish man in his jeans and jumper who carried a cane, and it made him cringe. Finally John had decided that he couldn't make the man look away, so he was just going to make the most of it. 

The hair, dirty blonde with several beautiful gold tones, was dark underneath, shortish, and styled with a little bit of mousse. The short strokes John had used for the dark hair along the man's nape and the longer strokes he had used for the blondish hair on top had blended in nicely. There were a few dominant waves running through his locks which were directed towards the side. This envious head of hair was finished with a couple blonde curls hanging down his forehead. 

Sherlock's straight nose had not been an issue, so next John had concentrated on the mouth. And what a gorgeous mouth it was! The class had been about halfway over at this point since John had spent so much time on the eyes and hair. The model's cupid's bow was perfectly shaped and sinful, with a hint of a 5 o'clock shadow just above it. 

John had some other thoughts while he was finishing the lips...about what that mouth may have done and what it would be good for. When, while looking at those lips, he saw the model smirk, he knew he was in trouble. Had his thoughts been that obvious? He looked back up into the model's eyes and John felt his face flush. He looked away then, and when he looked back the smirk was gone but the eyes were still locked on him. 

John sighed and finished his tea. Well, it wasn't much, but he had managed to have a good day between ogling the model, meeting Sarah, and enjoying the cathartic act of drawing. He still had to come back to his bedsit, but it looked like the drawing class had been a good idea on his therapist's part. Dammit, now she would expect him to talk about his "experiences" and "how he felt about them." Well, he knew for sure he wasn't going to tell her about the male model. That would be a field day for her. 

He wondered if the model, Sherlock, would be back following next week's female model. And obviously that was a fake name. 

He was just washing out his RAMC cup when someone knocked on his door. It seemed late for company. 

Curious, he checked his gun and put it in its usual spot, shoving it under his jumper over the small of his back before answering the door. 

There was a nice looking man in a trenchcoat, polite but weary-looking with graying hair at his temples. Beside him was a man in a dark wool coat who had his back to the door and was taking in everything he could about the neighborhood. 

As the man turned around John felt his eyes widen comically. 

The weary-looking man held out his hand. "John Watson? I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade with New Scotland Yard. This is a private consultant, Sherlock Holmes. May we come in?"


	3. Chapter 3

John stepped back to let them come inside. 

“Sure. What’s this about?” 

There really wasn’t anywhere for them to sit, but it didn’t seem like they wanted to sit, anyway. Sherlock was busy looking at everything and anything, from John’s bed to his bathroom to his fridge. That didn’t take long since his bedsit was so small. 

Lestrade nodded towards Sherlock, saying “Don’t mind him. He’s just looking around. I believe you have already met?” John blushed and glanced at Sherlock, who was looking at his desk. 

“Yes.” 

“There have been murders at the art museum recently,” Lestrade continued. 

“Blimey! At the art museum? It seems so safe.” John remarked.

“It is safe, especially during business hours and as long as you don’t go off by yourself.”

As Sherlock went to open the drawer with his gun paraphernalia in it, he blocked him with his body. 

“Um…don’t you need a warrant or something?” John began nervously. 

“Well, usually we just ask. Sherlock here is taking some liberties, however.” Lestrade replied. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s all wrong!” Sherlock spat, seeming more to talk to himself than the others. He came over to glare at John. 

“What do you mean?” Lestrade prompted. 

Turning to them, Sherlock began to explain very quickly, gesticulating wildly. 

“You were initially suspected, Dr. Watson, because the killer will be associated with the museum somehow, whether as a teacher, student, or staff we don’t know. In addition there is the gun: I noticed you have a gun on your person. I assume a case, magazine etc. is no doubt what you don’t want us to see in your desk drawer. Not the killer’s weapon of choice, but as investigators we try to first look for opportunity and access to weapons before jumping to conclusions. The killer will also have medical knowledge based on how the bodies have been found, and since you are a doctor you would obviously have that knowledge. 

“Then there are your hands and the callouses on your fingers. The murderer will have small and precise hands, likely hardened with callouses, and while yours are in fact quite nimble, the tremor in your left hand would show up in the victim’s cuts. In addition your jumpers are almost too unassuming and I thought it might have been a disguise, along with the limp. Further inspection shows your limp is real, albeit psychosomatic, just as your therapist suggests. You have killed, but not for pleasure, and in fact your time in combat haunts you. As for the jumpers, well, they appear to be just what they seem.” Sherlock looked away. "They do nothing for your physique, by the way."

“That was amazing,” John breathed after a few beats. 

Lestrade, who had been holding his head in his hands and expecting an outburst, looked up in surprise, as did Sherlock. 

“Really?” Sherlock beamed. 

“Yes! Really very impressive. Invasive as anything, but impressive." John smiled and gave a huff of laughter. Sherlock couldn't hide a please smile, and Lestrade looked between the two of them in surprise.

Lestrade was busy typing on a Blackberry. “Alright, Dr. Watson, I will overlook the gun since you have no priors and its from you time in service. I’m sorry to have bothered you and appreciate your time. Sherlock…” Lestrade began walking towards the door. 

“Yes, it’s been enlightening…by the way; may I see your drawing?” John turned red at this but seeing no way out of it, showed Sherlock his drawing.

Sherlock smirked and said, “I see you have paid attention in class.”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, then coughed in embarrassment. “Bloody hell! That’s really good! Jesus, Sherlock, are you naked?” 

“Yes, of course I am Lestrade,” Sherlock sniffed with disdain. “It’s art.” 

After a moment Lestrade shook John’s hand and left, asking him not to mention the investigation to anyone and to keep an eye out for suspicious people. John agreed to keep his watch up when he was at the museum. 

When Lestrade left, John immediately felt awkward being alone with the detective, the model he had drawn so intimately. It was different, seeing him moving and clothed, speaking so quickly. One thing hadn’t changed though: Sherlock was still studying him intently. 

“So that was just a cover then? You’re not a model?” John finally broke the silence.

“That’s correct. However I will have to keep up the charade a bit longer until the killer is found. It gives me perfect access to the teachers and students, and I can study them for long amounts of time.” 

John nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t help. Can you give me any more details on the murders, or are they classified?” 

“The killer is someone artistic…they take pleasure in making a statement with the bodies.”

“How were they killed exactly?” 

Sherlock looked at him a moment longer, then: “Their throats are slit, and they are hung upside down in a classroom. When the blood drains the killer uses it to paint.” 

John stared at him in disbelief. “You’re kidding!” 

“I never kid about murder, John.” It didn’t get past John that Sherlock was now using his first name. 

“Well, see you soon,” Sherlock winked and let himself out. Blasted! John should have asked him out. But that would have everything so awkward if he said no. Surely the man knew how John felt anyway, since he was so good at observing.

He heard a noise and looked up to find Sherlock had returned. 

"You're a doctor."

"Yes," John answered carefully.

"An Army doctor." Sherlock continued quietly.

"That's right." John said, wondering where this was going.

"And in need of work, judging by this place."

"I am looking for a job," John admitted, trying not to get mad.

"I'm going to the museum tonight, trying to catch the killer. Would you like to join me, give me your expert opinion on things?" Sherlock looked at him searchingly.

"I'd love to." John replied and blushed a little, then blushed even more as Sherlock studied his reaction. For some reason it felt like Sherlock was asking him out.

"Fantastic. The museum in an hour. Bring your gun."


	4. Chapter 4

When John met Sherlock later that evening, he was standing outside the museum smoking. Glass, steel, and concrete made up the modern museum. The walls were imposing and symmetrical, box-like but still beautiful when coupled with the large shallow reflecting pool and the landscaped gardens which surrounded the museum. The pool was reflected in the floor to ceiling windows, which caught the lights around the water, creating the impression of hundreds of small torches. 

Leaning against the wall with one foot propped behind him, the streetlight cast Sherlock in yellow light. The warm fluorescent lights bounced off his styled hair and the top of his cheekbones, making them even sharper and plunging the rest of his face into shadow. He was studying the building with nonchalance, but John knew he had noticed him. John swallowed around a lump suddenly in his throat and walked up to him. 

Sherlock took one more hard drag on the cigarette, hollowing his cheeks before throwing the butt to the ground and stepping on it. He allowed his momentum to carry him forward a foot or two until he was close enough that John could count the freckles on his face. Very close indeed. John felt the air between them heat up as they studied each other, both unwilling or unable to break the spell. John licked his lips which Sherlock eyed with interest. 

"You shouldn't smoke,"John said before he could stop himself, more out of a need to break the tension than to chastise him. 

That seemed to kill the mood as Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Shall we?" John said clearing his throat. 

"Mmm. Of course, Doctor," Sherlock replied sarcastically, and with a dramatic sweep of his coat turned towards the rotating door at the front of the museum.

Sherlock stopped and whispered, "We should go around back." 

John saw the logic in this, but wasn't sure how they would get in without a key. How did they know the security guard wasn't the killer? What if it was the custodian? Probably not, since he was elderly and had been on the job for more than 20 years. But someone had to be giving the killer access. 

Unless of course they were getting in the way he and Sherlock were: by picking the back door. Sherlock worked on the lock for a minute, then used some program on his iPhone to turn off the security grid momentarily. John's mouth had dropped open at the gall of the man in front of him as emergency lighting blinked on around him. 

"Exactly why and how are you doing this?" 

Sherlock gave him a long suffering look. "Obvious, John. We have to get inside without alerting anyone. As for turning off the security, I used a simple program I wrote." 

John looked at him in fascination. He imagined a 'simple program' was probably something like 400 lines of code for Sherlock. He had always despised computer programming. 

"Couldn't we have alerted the manager? Gotten a key?" John pressed. 

"No, he would have to let several people know, and that would compromise the investigation. Never underestimate the element of surprise." He turned and gave John a wide grin. 

"Besides, I think we both know you crave danger and are eager to use the tactical skills you learned in the Army." 

Sherlock looked at John expectantly with a quirked eyebrow, as if to say, 'Prove me wrong.' 

John nodded quickly and switched to reconaissance mentality, not meeting Sherlock's gaze as the lock was jimmied free. They waited a minute then slowly crept inside. The door opened into a large atrium and John had to squint to see the exhibition halls leading off in three directions in the dim light given off by the floor runners. 

John followed behind Sherlock, on high alert and with adrenaline pumping. After a moment of walking Sherlock stopped, and John accidentally bumped into him. As he felt contact he bit his lip to keep from making a noise. Sherlock whirled around and grabbed John, putting his hand over his mouth. They stood there in breathy silence, much too close for the newly acquainted. Still, giving themselves away was just enough of a concern that neither John and Sherlock moved. 

John had done a good job so far tonight on putting all visions of Sherlock's naked, sculpted body out of his mind. But now, he became distracted as he took in Sherlock's pronounced cupid's bow and his piercing gaze. Sherlock slowly removed his hand from John's mouth, which was good because John thought he might lick it. 

Being so close and face to face, John's imagination took over. He tried and failed to not think of ravishing Sherlock's mouth, tongue-fucking him and running his hands over that beautiful skin. He could take Sherlock in his mouth under Vincent Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' until he could't breathe. Oh, that would be lovely. He swallowed and hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice his breathing had sped up. 

Sherlock, for his part, was catalouging how John had been moving (almost imperceptibly), breathing (through his mouth so to be quiet, but faster as of the last minute), and holding his gun (steady and with purpose, but almost as though he had forgotten it simultaneously; it was an extension of his arm). Sherlock glanced down and took in the rest of the doctor: taunt and ready to strike. He could not help finding it incredibly sexy. He realized they were staring at each other, and he smirked as he deduced John was becoming aroused. Well. 

They were hunched near a large bust of modern art: a pair of lovers entwined, their eyes, hands, and lips overly large and marble. They seemed to leer at them, and John forced himself to pay attention to the situation and ignore Sherlock. 

John quirked his head and listened: there, what was that? He turned back to Sherlock and made sure they had eye contact before indicating the left hall with his chin ever so slightly. Sherlock paused and listened: there was a tiny drip...drip...drip noise, extremely faint and coming from one of the studios. Sherlock gave John an impressed look before cursing himself by getting distracted by John. 

"This way, by the Andy Warhol exhibit," Sherlock whispered. They crept slowly towards the exhibition hall and the noise grew louder. Drip...drip...drip. As they came to the room where the sound was emanating from, John crossed to the other side of the hall in order to cover Sherlock. They paused a moment longer and then Sherlock nodded. Throwing the door open, the two men rushed in. 

There was little reaction to their theatrics. In the back of the room sat a man at an easel. There were brushes and trays of what looked like red paint nearby. But what caught John's attention was the guard hanging upside down over the sink. His mouth was covered by duct tape and his hands secured behind his back. His legs were tied to a pipe hanging down from the ceiling and he was swinging ever so gently. 

John quickly assessed any injuries. There were slashes on his arms and legs, which accounted for the dripping sound they heard, but as far as John could tell he wasn't bleeding out. The guards eyes went wide with relief when he looked up. 

"Evening," Sherlock said as he sent a quick text to Lestrade and walked slow towards the painter, who hadn't looked up yet. John stayed slightly behind and out of reach in case the man lunged. The painter finally looked up. Mid 30s with a haggard, tired face which made him seem older. His eyes, though, were crazed and red, lending an air of danger to his whole being. 

He gave them a quick withering look and sighed in resignation. "I knew you would show up. I knew I wouldn't finish this. Do you know what happens to artists that can't finish their work?" 

He stood up and gesticulated towards his canvas. A line of red sprayed in an arc across the floor from the brush he flourished. "It eats away at you. You can't keep something like this inside!" 

Okay, thought John. Clearly mad. He glanced at Sherlock, who didn't take his eyes off the man. 

"Perhaps you shouldn't have picked such a public place. You were bound to get caught. In fact, you wanted to get caught. Genius needs an audience." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. 

"I wasn't ready yet! But I did want an audience, yes..." the painter focused on the middle distance and got a dreamy look in his red-rimmed eyes. "I wanted an art opening, here at the modern museum. Canvases covered with the blood of their employees. So beautiful! I would be appreciated here!" 

He yelled the last sentence and John tensed. Suddenly the man produced a knife and ran towards the guard. John and Sherlock both went after him, but were still a few steps aways when he held the knife to the helpless victim's throat. Sherlock began talking in slightly softer tones. 

"Killing him won't help you finish your canvas. We promise to let you keep painting if you hand him over without further injuries." 

Negotiating with a killer? John thought. They were however in a tight situation. He watched the painter consider it. "I don't know. This will take hours. And I don't have enough blood, er, paint." He chuckled at this. "Hence Mr. Martin here. No, no I definitely need more. I can't compromise my work just because I am surrounded by imbeciles." 

"Funny, I often feel the same way," Sherlock muttered. 

John gave him a disapproving glance but turned his attention back to the killer as the guard let out a squeak. He saw that the painter was pushing hard into his neck, and reorienting his grip in order to make a slicing motion. 

He didn't remember making the decision, but the next instant, John had shot the painter in the leg. The killer howled in pain and fell down. John ran over to the guard, cut him down and lowered him into a chair. He quickly ascertained the man had only superficial wounds and was going into shock. 

A moment later Lestrade and a number of officers burst in. Medics attended to the guard and the killer. When at last the killer was read his rights and secured to a gurney, he was trying to convince the officers to come to his next art show.

"I doubt he will ever have another show," muttered John.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Lestrade asked. 

"Yes, yes. A former disgruntled museum worker and artist. They never thought he was good enough to be in the frequent art shows here. After failing as a nurse and also as an artist in their eyes, he was trying to exact revenge by using the employees' blood as paint. He is clearly unhinged and was babbling about an art show when he tried to kill the guard. John was forced to shoot him." 

Lestrade turned in surprise. "John...from earlier? You shot him?" Lestrade seemed incredulous that quiet, unassuming John Watson would be mixed up in this. 

"Uh, yes. Here," John said, and gave his gun to Lestrade. "I aimed for a non life-threatening injury." 

Lestrade nodded. "I need statements from you two." 

"Lestrade, it's late. We'll come by in the morning. We just caught you a serial killer. Besides, John's a war hero. He's not going anywhere," Sherlock whinged. 

John felt himself blush and agreed, "Yes, I will be around." 

"Okay," Lestrade relented. "But 9 o'clock sharp, got it?" 

"Yes," John said, and Sherlock just nodded. He was giving John a searching look and John could tell he was trying to work something out. 

As they walked out, Sherlock smiled sinfully and said, "Dinner?" 

"Starving." John grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this chapter took so long. Next one will be the last and have plenty of smut!


	5. Chapter 5

That night, dinner was the most fun John had had in a long time. Sherlock finished explaining why the painter was the perpetrator (besides the fact he was caught in the act and basically admitted it). He worked for the museum previously, so had access; he had a motive; he had small hands which Sherlock had mentioned the killer would have based on the victim’s wounds; and he previously studied to be a nurse, meaning he had plenty of knowledge about anatomy and the proper way to drain someone of blood. 

John constantly said things like “Amazing!” and “Fabulous!” that lent a rosy tint to Sherlock’s cheeks. After that, John was regaled with stories of other murders and murderers, some stupid and some smart. They had made a good dent in the vegetable fried rice and order of spring rolls. The doctor part of him was always happy when people were well fed. 

By the time they had finished eating Sherlock was already slumping from fatigue. Sherlock threw some notes on the table before John could argue about the bill and he and John stumbled out. Even in this state Sherlock hailed a cab quickly. 

John helped him in before sliding in beside him. He immediately felt awkward: was he going home with him? If so, what did that mean? Anything? Again his mind unhelpfully supplied miles of milky white skin, muscles, and bedroom eyes. Not helping. Sherlock must have noticed the silence wasn’t comfortable, because he turned to John and commanded, “Stop thinking.” John spent the rest of the ride trying to relax. 

When they pulled up to Sherlock’s building on Baker Street, he paid the cabbie and motioned for John to follow. Sherlock definitely seemed slower than he had earlier, and after putting the key in upside down twice and swearing, John appropriated it and let them in with a soft squeak from the hinges. Sherlock rested back against the door before taking a couple unsteady steps towards the stairs. Without saying anything, John hauled one of the detective’s lengthy arms over his good shoulder, and they made their way upstairs without too much difficulty. 

Opening the door to his flat, Sherlock threw his coat and scarf off towards the general direction of the entryway. They made it halfway onto the coat hook, dangling precariously. John adjusted them, but kept his own jacket on. He didn’t want to seem presumptuous. 

Looking around, John was immediately fascinated by the bullets in the wallpaper, the skull, and all the papers and books about subjects like autopsy, pathology, and microbiology. He spied several papers he would like to read. He took in the general sloppiness and thought, ‘Yeah, that’s about right.’ 

After a minute he looked up. Sherlock had apparently left the room. “Sherlock…Sherlock!” John said in a loud whisper. He skulked around the flat until he spied the detective, out cold and lying horizontally across his bed. He was clearly asleep based on the pattern of the deep, slow breaths John could hear. 

John glanced at his watch. It was really quite late, and he was knackered. They only had a few hours before Lestrade arrived. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t mind if he just lay down on the couch. John didn’t even bother stifling his yawn as he got comfortable and drifted off.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing John noticed was there was a crook in his neck. The second was that he was more comfortable than usual, but still sore. He cracked an eye open and ventured a look. It took a moment, but he remembered the previous night quickly. Catching the killer, the dinner with Sherlock, crashing on the couch. 

He became aware there was a knocking, which must have been what woke him. He rolled over quickly as he heard a pair of feet pounding the stairs. Looking up blearily, he heard a female voice and that of a man. 

"Sherlock! You have a visitor!" They both stopped and stared at John when they saw him. 

"Oh, hello. I just...um...kipped on the couch,"John said lamely. 

"I'm Ms. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady, and this is-" 

"Lestrade. Morning." 

"Hello again, John. Long night?" John wasn't sure he liked the inferences the Inspector was making with his smug grin and choice of words. 

"Um, yes as a matter of fact." 

Sherlock chose that moment to burst out of his bedroom. His hair was wild, with curls sticking out every which way. Wearing blue and white striped pajamas, a faded white t-shirt and a thin blue robe, he paused in the kitchen. He wore a comical expression for a second while he took in the scene before composing himself. 

"Ms. Hudson, I see you've met John. We'll take tea." Ms. Hudson looked affonted and ready to scold when John and Lestrade both amended a 'please' with feeling. 

She nodded smartly and headed back downstairs muttering "Just this once." 

"Well I guess you boys had quite a night," Lestrade said, still with a ridiculous smile on his face. 

"Lestrade, John and I are fully clothed, he clearly slept on the couch and I in my bed. So do shut up." 

Lestrade sighed and quipped "Morning to you to, Sunshine." 

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Do get on with it. The forms, please." 

Lestrade handed them each a statement form just as Ms. Hudson reappeared with tea and biscuits. John fixed his cup gratefully, and noticing Sherlock hadn't gotten a cup, made one for him as well. Lestrade watched this with an amused air. 

Sherlock meanwhile was already halfway through his statement, scribbling viciously. 

"I do have to be able to read that, Sherlock," Lestrade said testily. Sherlock finished his statement while keeping hostile eye contact with Lestrade. He signed with a flourish and handed it to the Inspector. John noticed paradoxically that Sherlock's signature was very messy, like some doctors, while his was in fact very neat, even though he was a doctor himself. 

John finished his statement with Ms. Hudson looking over his shoulder, asking questions here and there and saying "Oh, dear" quite a lot. Finally Lestrade was satisfied with their statements, and Ms. Hudson went to show him out. 

"I hope we'll be seeing more of you, John," Ms. Hudson said innocently. 

Lestrade wriggled his eyebrows at John, and holding up a hand to block Sherlock's view, said in a load stage whisper, "Sherlock does too!" 

Ms. Hudson swatted the Inspector, and John couldn't help but guffaw. Risking a glance at Sherlock, he saw him roll his eyes, but noticed his cheeks were tinged pink. 

Once they were alone the silence was uncomfortable, but there was a hum of electricity in the air that John thought he recognized. 

Taking a chance and seeing that Sherlock was watching him hungrily, he said "Come here." 

Sherlock seemed to hold his breath before John added, "Please." 

Sherlock had more sexual experience than most people realized, and acknowledging what they both knew, walked over to John and straddled his lap. 

John's breathing hitched but he responded quickly by running his hands over Sherlock's arms and down his back. He grabbed his arse just as they began to kiss passionately. 

Sherlock groaned and grinded into John's lap, causing John to break the kiss and make an undignified noise. Sherlock couldn't help but smile and repeated the movement, moving to bite and suck on John's lips before kissing him again messily. 

John began pushing the robe off Sherlock's shoulders, and the detective paused to help with the disrobing. Once Sherlock's shirt was off, John stopped in awe and ran his hands over the smooth alabaster skin. 

"You're so beautiful. Since the first time I drew you...I have imagining this. You. Us. Like this." 

"I know John. Me too." 

The next few minutes were filled with breathless whispers of adulation in between snogging that made John's toes curl in anticipation. Sherlock quickly got rid of John's shirt, and seeing a strong sculpted chest as well as a scar (his scar!), suddenly things couldn't happen fast enough. 

He lifted his hips up and pushed flush into John's chest, so that he was above and looking down into John's very blue eyes. This meant his stomach was level with John's mouth, and John began to lick and gently bite his abs and nipples, causing Sherlock to arch into him even more. 

John followed the fine black trail of hair down until Sherlock's pajamas bottoms became a hindrance. John growled in frustration and pushed both hands into Sherlock's bottoms, finding he was naked underneath. He pushed the pajamas down roughly and his mouth watered as he saw Sherlock's long, thick cock. 

He barely paused before taking it in his mouth down to the root, causing Sherlock to howl. 

"Mmmmm," John replied, and the vibration caused Sherlock to buck into his mouth. After that it didn't take long, with John swirling his tongue and pressing filthy kisses to his cockhead. John, realizing Sherlock didn't have long, sped up and hollowed his cheeks, increasing the suction. 

Sherlock groaned a gutteral "Johnnnn!!" before coming completely in John's mouth. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time, if ever, he had come so powerfully, as wave after wave of pleaure overwhelmed all his senses. 

Breath stuttering, Sherlock's vision and hearing came back all at once, and he realized he was draped limply over John with sweat dripping off his curls. John was mouthing his shoulders and nipping his neck, apparently giving him a lovebite. 

After a few moments to get his faculties in order, Sherlock lifted his eyes and suddenly John was half carrying, half lifting him to his bedroom. John wasted no time peeling off his jeans and boxers and settling himself over Sherlock.

Sherlock spit in his hands and lubed John's cock, which was stout and beautiful. They linked hands, moving them quickly up and down. John took in Sherlock's body, finding him incredibly hot, and wondering how in the hell he was in bed with such a gorgeous creature. 

Sherlock dragged his fingernails along the bottom of John's bullocks and then squeezed, and that was all John could take. He closed his eyes tightly as the rush came, and Sherlock rocked into him, close to coming again himself. 

When he caught his breath he lifted his head and laid his chin on Sherlock's chest. Looking at his lover, he thought of what they had been through in the short time they had known each other. John couldn't get rid of his huge grin; he felt so alive. 

He marveled at Sherlock's beauty with endorphins still swirling in his system. The dark curls plastered in light sweat to his forehead, the long, slightly feminine eyelashes, the high cheekbones, and lips that were kiss-swollen and shiny. The chest still rising and falling at an accelerated rate. John was chuffed at having such an effect on this man. 

"Sherlock?" 

Sherlock lifted his head, and a smile slowly spread across his face as he read John's thoughts. 

"Yes, John. You can draw me like this. Everyday, if you like." 

John laughed and situated himself against Sherlock's chest. 

"Good. Because I don't think I'm leaving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone! Did you like it? Did I do the sexy times justice? Let me know!! XOXO


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